


the end for which we live

by Daydreamer5187, StegesaurusKay



Series: Past Patiently Waiting [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Dehumanization, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hammie and Laurens are brothers, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Protective John Laurens, Protective Washington, Washingdad, Wound Recovery, references to slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 07:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21316489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daydreamer5187/pseuds/Daydreamer5187, https://archiveofourown.org/users/StegesaurusKay/pseuds/StegesaurusKay
Summary: Part II of the Past Patiently Waiting series; sequel to we are waiting in the wings (for you)The tags are going to change, make sure you read them.Two months after the incident with Samuel Davies, Washington and Hamilton have established a new normal. It's a good normal, though a confusing one; they both don't know where they stand on the line between employer and employee and father and son. And unfortunately for them, Davies is far from finished with either of them, and this time it's personal.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton & John Laurens
Series: Past Patiently Waiting [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1459756
Comments: 120
Kudos: 198





	1. ever favourite object of my heart

**Author's Note:**

> _“All human happiness or misery takes the form of action; the end for which we live is a certain kind of action.” _
> 
> _― Aristotle, Poetics _

In Greek mythology there is a set structure to all their tragedies; it begins as it ends, with a stasis. The normal of the beginning however is never the same normal as the end, with the in between bits full of heroic sacrifice and tragic misfortunes and the like. It changes what constitutes normal. 

This, Washington supposes, is their new stasis. 

Hamilton’s recovery is going as it was predicted to go, it’s slow and painful and will probably never be complete. Every wince and clenched jaw and sharp inhale is a cruel reminder of what happened, what Washington_ allowed _to happen. 

But it becomes normal. Hamilton has to live with the pain of his wounds and Washington has to live with the pain of his inadequacy. 

Alexander tries to hide it, he’s so desperate for that old normal, when he could work for hours upon hours on end and be fine to start again in the morning, but it just isn’t possible anymore. Washington cannot, in good conscience, allow the boy to work through his agony. 

Ordering his aide back to bed has yet to be well met.

It is not slamming doors or casting icy glares,_ anymore_, but it seems Washington cannot make any suggestion without the boy bristling in irritation. 

He understands that Hamilton is a fiercely independent boy, that the circumstances of his upbringing demand he be independent and that he does not understand why Washington insists on his protective detail, or that he stay separate from the other aides, or the general’s anxiety to begin with - how could he? No one has ever cared for him in that way before. 

And he doesn’t know that Davies could still be alive. 

Of all things, that is what plagues Washington the most, not only because it plays a much larger threat to Alexander’s safety than the general threat of the Britsh knowing the boy’s worth, but also because Washington knows the secrecy will be seen as a betrayal and in that regard Hamilton would be right. 

Two months after the incident and they’re still circling each other, closer than before perhaps, but simultaneously worlds apart, and they try and get on with their lives. Hamilton wants to move on, and Washington cannot. He cannot until he knows that it is truly _over_.

The sun is barely risen when Washington enters the office, and yet there is Hamilton, at his table, candle nearby, and hard at work on a draft of something or other. “Your Excellency,” Hamilton greets, moving to rise from his seat.

Washington catches the faintest flush of the boy’s cheeks, the tick in his jaw when he clenches his teeth as he shifts his position.

“No need, Hamilton,” he motions for the boy to stay where he is. 

Hamilton tenses and just barely glances in Washington’s direction before he settles back in his chair. “You’re up early, sir,” he says before the general can question how he’s feeling.

Washington holds in a chuckle. This is so _ normal_. The old normal, a state and time he’d give anything to return to. “Plenty of work to be done, Hamilton.”

“As always, sir.”

“Indeed, and yet you insist on working like the work is all for you.” Washington watches as Hamilton’s mouth pulls into a half smile. He’s seen the boy dig through incoming notes and reports. Hamilton is always the first to it and he always ensures to take the most vital information to copy before anything else.

“If I write fast enough it will be, sir.” The general tuts disapprovingly but says no more, opting to go to his own desk and begin tackling _ his _workload for the day.

“And will Colonel Laurens be joining us anytime soon?” 

Hamilton hums, mouth tipping upwards again. “I wouldn’t know, sir, but I don’t doubt it. Laurens wakes almost as early as I.” 

“I’m aware, and yet you both go to sleep far too late.” Washington should know, Alexander sleeps in his private quarters nowadays and Washington has found he cannot sleep well if he doesn’t know Hamilton is tucked in his bed.

“Force of habit, Your Excellency.” Hamilton shuffles his papers, looking for one in particular. “If you would just clear this draft to Congress it can be sent out with the morning messengers.” But he stands too abruptly and almost crumples in on himself with a startled gasp. Washington’s knee bangs the edge of his desk as he starts, instinctively trying to reach for Hamilton. “I’m_ fine_,” the boy insists, daring the general to disagree.

_ Fine _ has become some new word altogether in recent weeks. It’s become Hamilton’s favorite, or just about, as he quickly dismisses any concern over a grimace or flinch. Hamilton assures Washington, Laurens, the other aides constantly, that he is _ fine_, that he does not need help in any way. Fine means self reliance, and the boy intends to keep it that way.

Hamilton crosses the distance of the room in a few short steps to hand over his draft. An untrained eye would barely notice, but Washington sees it plain as day: the slight limp, the way his young aide holds himself to keep pressure off of his injured side. 

The general has to remind himself to believe this too: Hamilton is fine, fine, _ fine _... 

Hamilton gently clears his throat and Washington glances up into his face, unsure of when he stopped paying attention. He reaches for the page and sets it on his desk, “Thank you, my boy. I’m sure this is fine and-”

He’s interrupted by a knock at the door. Washington and Hamilton turn in the exact same moment. “Come,” the general calls.

The door opens, and it’s another of his aides standing in the doorway. “Sir, there’s a man here requesting to see you.”

Washington cocks a brow, and he sees Hamilton almost cock his head in curiosity. People typically do not arrive unannounced and ask to see the army’s Commander in Chief. “Who, exactly?”

“A delegate from Congress, sir. He asks for a few minutes of your time,” the other aide looks from Washington to Hamilton and back. “And he asks that the two of you speak alone.”

There are at least half a dozen letters from Congress piled on Washington’s desk, unanswered in these last months. They should all be answered, but finding the will to focus has been difficult as of late. Washington is not eager to explain himself to a delegate. Congress knows now what happened, the whole story. Even so, he cannot turn a delegate away.

Washington stands from his desk with a heavy sigh, absently straightening his coat. He glances at Alexander with a half smile. “You’ve earned yourself an hour’s time off,” he holds up a hand when the boy opens his mouth to protest. “Neither of us have any say here, hm? I’ll send for you once we’re finished.”

Hamilton’s shoulders visibly slump, but he nods slowly. “Yes, sir,” and the boy sees himself out of the room without argument. 

“See this delegate in then,” Washington commands, straightening his posture and broadening his shoulders, ever the picture of authority. The aide nods and rushes away, returning not a minute later with the aforementioned delegate, after escorting him into the office the aide wastes no time in taking his leave.

“Your Excellency,” the man begins, tipping his head in respect, “I hope the day finds you well.” 

“I wouldn’t know sir,” Washington extends his hand, the delegate takes it easily enough, “I’ve not yet found out.” 

“Yes, I apologize for the abruptness of my visit, and the hour, but the matter at hand is one of some urgency.” 

“Oh?” Many matters of Congress are of some level of urgency, but they are rare to send a delegate. “Please, have a seat, Mister…” 

“Brown. Thank you,” the delegate sits opposite Washington, and reaches into his coat almost nervously. 

“I do apologize for the tardiness of my replies to Congress… there’s been quite a backlog the past few weeks and-” 

“That is not why I am here, General. Congress understands that there were far more compromising circumstances taking your attention at the time.” Washington does not like this man’s tone at all, there's a _however _ coming and he can feel it. “However, as of late there’s been concerns amongst the congressmen regarding… _ mishaps _ in correspondences sent from your office to ours.” 

“Errors?” Washington is diligent with what he signs his name to, what he allows the aides to send to Congress, for there to be errors made frequently enough to send a delegate is a curious thing.

“Yes, Your Excellency, in the past three weeks or so.” That’s when Alexander returned to work. “It is no slight against you… nor any of your aide-de-camps actually,” the delegate is quick to amend, hastily pulling a bundle of missives from his coat. “But the mistakes being made have become too grave to ignore. It is understandable, of course, that his work would decline after what happened-” 

“He?” But Washington already knows, he can feel it. The general hears his heart pound against his ear and feels ice pool in his stomach but betrays nothing on his countenance. 

“Alexander Hamilton sir, he- it is only his messages which have been found to show such errors.” 

Washington blinks, once, twice. Hamilton. They’re here about Hamilton; Hamilton making mistakes specifically, and that thought is hard to comprehend. Alexander provokes Congress sometimes, his writing too blunt and quick to portray his anger at their inaction, but... he doesn’t make mistakes. 

“Surely there is some mistake, Colonel Hamilton is one of my best aides.” 

“Yes, your primary aide, correct?” Brown’s fingers thumb nervously at the papers. Washington nods his confirmation, a bit more curt now, his eyes a little more icy. “It is just his handwriting sir, I have a few here.” 

Brown opens the parchment, offering it to Washington. There is no malice behind his eyes, but there is hard determination which bodes ill for Washington. He takes the offering and scans it as Brown continues speaking. 

“The boy was copying notes and reported two hundred soldiers, there were two thousand. If you had had men act on this there would have been a bloodbath and a devastating loss of resources.” 

What the delegate says is true, Washington can _ see _ that it’s so. He doesn’t know what to say. He scans the letter again and again as Brown continues.

“He’s reported supplies tracked to the wrong towns, incorrect counts of men and arms protecting our cities. I’m certain Colonel Hamilton does not mean these mistakes, Your Excellency, but they could cause significant damage, or even doom our cause. Surely sir, you examine his reports before they’re sent to Congress.”

Washington opens his mouth, and abruptly closes it again. He hasn’t needed to check the boy’s work in ages. Weeks after convincing Hamilton to join his staff the general realized he had a knack for writing his exact intentions in the very way he meant to say it. The boy is brilliant. He doesn’t _ make _ mistakes like this, and yet the proof is in Washington’s hand right this very moment.

“I think you’ll agree sir, with the potential cost a mistake like this could inflict upon our cause,” Brown trails off and clears his throat.

“Yes?” Washington lets the letter drop to his desk and looks up with a knot of dread building in his gut. He knows now exactly where this is going.

“Some congressmen agree, sir, that perhaps Colonel Hamilton has returned to his work too soon. No one doubts his integrity, but this cannot continue to happen. Some men suggest that perhaps Hamilton take more time to recover, or if not…”

“What?”

“An honorable discharge.”

“No.”

Washington knows he responds too quickly even before Brown quirks a brow. He’s too protective of the boy, especially now. If he refuses to do anything about this, he knows the rumors will start to fly in Congress. There’s been talk before, that Washington spoils Hamilton, treats him like a son, doesn’t rein him in even when the boy speaks to gentlemen who vastly outrank him.

And now those rumors will turn to Washington protecting the boy, shielding him from his own mistakes while ignoring his own duty to their cause. That cannot happen. Talk will turn to replacing Washington because of an inability to focus on his duties while so driven to care for the poor orphan boy at his side.

That cannot happen either.

“General Washington, please understand that Congress, while sympathetic, does not take mistakes such as these lightly. If the boy’s traumas are too much for him to be able to properly do his work then the only course of action available is relinquishing him of those duties.” 

“Colonel Hamilton is an excellent worker, his use of the English language-” 

“Was formidable yes, and we know that you two are… close.” There it is, maybe as close as this man will get to insinuating Washington cannot be objective. “But the efforts of the war outweigh the desires of one boy.” 

“I’ll not discharge him for-” 

“Men are discharged for war injuries frequently, there is no dishonour in it. Hamilton sustained severe injuries on your behalf,” Washington’s fingers tighten against the arm rests, “and on behalf of the cause, and there is a great deal of respect for a boy so young to endure so much. He’ll be compensated, it will be a comfortable life, but we cannot allow mistakes like these to continue.” 

“I understand that but Hamilton had a promising future within the ranks, I’m loathe to even consider taking that from him.” Perhaps it is saying too much, but the idea of firing Hamilton, sending him away from the army after _ everything _ he went through in its service is unfathomable.

Washington knows how Hamilton will see this, if he is sent away the boy’s ambition will shatter. Finding a legacy for himself is all he’s wanted since he was a boy, by Alexander’s own omission. 

And it won’t be safe; Davies is out there somewhere and the only thing keeping Hamilton safe is the protection of the base, of Washington himself, if he loses that then it will be far too easy to simply take him. Take him like he’d wanted to out in that clearing and do what he’d threatened with the talk of games and playing and _ screams_\- 

“I’m sorry to be blunt, Your Excellency, but Congress demands you do more than consider it.” 

Washington quashes the growing panic in his chest and tightens his jaw. “I will address Colonel Hamilton’s mistakes, and chart a course of action to rectify his process in the future, but he will not be discharged.” 

“If he is incompetent-” 

“I assure you, he is_ not._” 

“You must understand that the Commander in Chief to the army cannot have a primary aide who cannot do his work correctly. If you do not want to discharge him that is your decision, _ for now_, but Hamilton will not continue to work until he can do so at a level befitting your office. If you give him leave, as is your only option besides discharge, and he returns and is _ still _ unable to do his work then Congress will discharge him ourselves, and other repercussions may fall to _ you. _ So please, give it some thought.” 

Brown stands, it’s the end of their conversation and they both know it. Washington follows and offers his hand to shake, but he does so with a stony disposition and hardened gaze. Brown takes the hand and steps back, bowing to Washington. 

“Please offer my best wishes to Colonel Hamilton’s recovery.” How _ dare _ he end this meeting with well wishes to Alexander when he all but threatened Washington to fire him.

“And give my regard to Congress,” Washington grits. Brown nods and takes his leave, escorted by one of Washington’s guards. 

The general heaves a great sigh and collapses back into his chair, drumming his fingers over the missives which were surely to be the cause of many a headache; it is true that if any other man made these mistakes they would be fired immediately, but not Hamilton. 

Maybe Washington pushed too hard, even inadvertently for everything to just go back the way it was, and Hamilton wasn’t ready. It’s alright though, everything is _ fine fine fine, _ he will simply insist that Hamilton take a few more weeks to recover and begin checking his work more closely when he does return. 

Hamilton might resent it but that’s fine, Hamilton will accept it if he wants to remain a member of staff. He has to. 

Because if he doesn’t and he’s forced away from the army, from _ Washington, _ and Davies finds out- 

He will. Everything will be alright. It will be fine. 

Fine. 

* * *

Hamilton, despite his previous assurances, is sleeping like the dead when Washington ascends the stairs. After the conversation he just had, Washington does not want to simply send someone to collect the boy, he needs to see him for himself. 

He opens the door slowly, expecting the soft, rhythmic breathing that has coaxed him to sleep the past few weeks. Alexander lays on top his covers, on his good side, and looks completely at peace. He hasn’t looked at peace, even in sleep, for seven weeks. 

Washington debates letting him rest, and leaving the unpleasant conversation to come for later. In the end, he decides to just let him sleep, but ever in his Alexander way, the boy chooses the opposite. 

His eyes blink open naturally, without hurry, and he doesn’t start awake like he might’ve in the first few days of him staying in Washington’s quarters. Instead he groans and blinks away his sleep in its entirety before sitting up. 

“You might feel so refreshed if you rested more than three hours a night,” Washington comments light-heartedly, pouring Alexander a glass of water and then one for himself. “Or if you more oft took my advice and retired for an hour throughout the day.” 

Alexander sips his water without comment, but his lip pulls into a little grin against the glass, which is comment enough for Washington. 

“I’m not yet of the age that I require daily naps,” Alexander grins, the unspoken_ like you _hanging in the air. 

“Cheeky,” the general tuts, content to watch the boy at ease for a little while longer. “You’re incorrigible.” 

“And always will be.” Hamilton shifts towards the edge of the bed, but stays sitting atop it. He can’t stand for long lengths of time. “What did the delegate want?” Washington’s mirth abruptly dissolves, which does not escape Hamilton’s notice, his brow furrowing in concern. “Is there a problem within Congress, or-” 

“It was about you, Hamilton.” Washington watches the moment the words hit the boy, the moment they sink in. 

“Me?” 

“Yes,” the general swallows heavily, “they believe you may have returned to work prematurely.” 

Hamilton’s face flushes. “And who are they to say so?! What basis do they have to make such a claim?!” 

“You’ve made mistakes Alexander, you’ve made grievous mistakes which could have had devastating effects on the army.” The words feel like lead in Washington’s mouth. 

“_What? _ ” Hamilton’s eyes grow wide, and Washington can almost see his breath stall. “What mistakes? Your Excellency, I double check _ all of _ my work, there must be some misunderstanding.”

“I… I saw the missives, son, in your handwriting and- and there _ were _ errors.” 

“Then there must have been errors in the original notes I transcribed because I copy them perfectly, I know I do.” 

It irks Washington a bit that the boy refuses to take responsibility for his mistakes. He’s made it clear that he’s not angry with Hamilton. His chief aide can be irritating, arrogant at times, and having seen the missives, it cannot be dismissed now.

“No, Alexander.” Washington sighs. “It’s okay to make mistakes, maybe I pushed you too hard, or allowed you to push _ yourself _ too hard to return to work, but you have to take accountability-” 

“I _ do_! Let me see the missives, I know they are correct to the notes I was given! Sir, if I thought I was unable to do my work I would have retired _ myself._” 

“Would you?” Washington snaps. “That’s not your regular habit Hamilton, you work until you drop and don’t seem to have enough sense to know when it’s _ too much_.” 

Hamilton looks as if he’s been slapped. “You’re not listening to me; I keep the notes, if you just allow me to show you-” 

“_No, _ Alexander! The Congress called for your discharge, how you made the mistakes are neither here nor there, what matters is that they cannot happen again and I cannot be seen doing nothing about them.” 

“_Discharge_? You’re discharging me?!” 

“_No_, I’m not. You’re being placed on leave for a few more weeks, but I stalled your discharge from the ranks.” 

Hamilton sputters and abruptly stands, knocking the air from his lungs as he does so. Washington’s hands rush to steady the boy on their own accord but are angrily shaken away a moment later. 

“So you’re going to believe some unknown delegate over your primary aide-de-camp?” Is that all Hamilton is? Neither of them know, maybe that’s part of the problem. “You’ll believe them without even allowing me to try and prove to you I’m_ not _ inept at my job?” 

Washington produces the papers from his coat, much the same as Brown did not an hour ago. “Here are the missives in question, Hamilton. _ You _ wrote them and there _ are _mistakes. Now it is understandable if you cannot focus as you once could, but at the end of the day it still means you are not ready to return to work.” 

Hamilton snatches them, quick eyes fluttering over the words on the pages and the annotations made by Congress of his mistakes. 

“I have my notes from these missives, I’ll show you them, you’ll see that what I wrote was true to my knowledge-” 

“_Enough. _” Washington’s voice is low and authoritative, he’s had enough of this conversation. It’s a dismissal and he can see by the look on Hamilton’s face he knows it. 

“Why won’t you listen to me?” There’s a hurt in his eyes which Washington recognizes from two months prior. “I’m telling the truth, I- I _ know _ the mistake wasn’t on my part.” 

“Congress already believes I favour you, if I try and refute these claims they will have my head. I’ve heard enough for now Alexander, we’ll speak more later.” 

“I don’t understand why you won’t allow me to at least-” 

“I said enough! You weren’t ready to return to work, that blame is on me, but you can try again in a few weeks after you recover a bit more, maybe by then you’ll have learnt to _ ask _ for help.” 

“I don’t need your help! I’m_ tired _ of your help!” Hamilton bellows it at the top of his lungs, his fragile hold on his temper broken. “You believe me a fragile, cracked piece of porcelain, nothing more than a damaged _ thing _ for you to fix, I’m not! I’m just as capable now as I was before Samuel Davies shoved a dagger through my chest or shattered my ribs! You don’t _ listen to me_, even still!” 

“I’m just trying to protect you, Alexander!” 

“I never asked for that! All I ask for is your trust-” 

“Do _ not _accuse me of distrust, son.” 

“Don’t call me that! You are _ not _my father!” That certainly halts any rebuttal either of them were about to say. To be quite honest, it stops Washington’s heart in his chest. Hamilton gulps down a mouthful of air, eyes widened, and rushes out of the room. 

* * *

Washington doesn’t see Hamilton for hours after their argument, doesn’t see him for the rest of the day in fact. 

He heard Alexander race down the stairs, slam the door to his office and then reemerge a moment later, he heard Laurens’ worried call for his friend to _ stop, slow down_, and then both their footfalls retreated down the hall, away from Washington. 

Washington cannot avoid camp inspections that afternoon, and by the time he returns it is nearly dark, and he is exhausted. The general starts first toward the workroom, expecting to find Hamilton at work despite their conversation and his order for the boy to stand down. He stops just outside. There is no candle lit, no one in the room. With that he turns back and heads up the stairs to his quarters.

Hamilton is not in the room. 

Washington is not surprised. Had he been in Hamilton’s place as a young man he supposes he would not have appreciated a talk like this either, but accountability is accountability. Hamilton will understand eventually. He’ll calm down by tomorrow, in a few weeks return to his work, and Washington can imagine the glares he’ll get when he has to scrutinize the boy’s letters and reports.

At some point the general falls asleep. He wakes before dawn as he usually does. When he sits up and lights a candle he looks to Hamilton’s bed. It’s untouched.

Washington is not surprised to find the bed empty. Over these last trying weeks, months, when Hamilton’s frustration or temper gets the better of him, he often leaves these quarters to share with Laurens. The two have become even closer since… then, and Washington knows that Laurens came as close to losing a brother as he did a son. The first time he woke to find Hamilton missing Washington all but panicked, tearing the place apart until he found the boy asleep in Laurens’ bed. Now he accepts it that Hamilton must still be in camp. He’s safe.

It’s fine.

Once he’s suitably dressed and prepared for the day Washington makes his way to the workroom. He’s the first one there. Not unexpected, since he’s ordered Hamilton to take more time to recover. A servant has already been by, there’s a fire going in the hearth. 

Washington sits at his desk with a brief glance at the stack of letters from Congress. He needs to respond to these soon. He can ill afford a rumor that he’s unable to maintain his office, his position, and manage this war. 

On the other side of the desk sit Hamilton’s letters brought from Congressman Brown. Underneath them lie scraps of parchment. Washington almost chuckles to himself. These must be the original notes Hamilton had copied his letters from. Mistakes on the letters correspond with circled words in the notes. The boy went through and found every one of his supposed mistakes and pointed…

Washington’s breath abruptly catches in his throat as he lifts one of the scraps. The writing is familiar- he’s seen it before. He still sees it in his sleep most every night.

_ Do you really think you can keep him safe every hour of every day? _

Before he even consciously decides to move Washington is on his feet rushing for the stairs. He bursts into the other bedroom without even pausing to knock. 

Laurens is alone in his bed, still asleep. Washington can’t breathe.

Hamilton is fine, _ fine. _ He has to be. The boy wakes early. It’s _ fine_.

Washington still rouses Laurens. Perhaps he knows where Hamilton’s gone so early. The boy blinks his eyes open, fixing on the general with groggy confusion. 

“Sir..?” Obviously he’s not fully awake, having failed to leap out of bed to salute.

“Have you seen Hamilton? He isn’t… I need to speak with him.”

Laurens shakes his head sleepily, and Washington feels his heart shatter in his chest. “Alex wasn’ here las’ night.”

It’s fine. Hamilton is fine.

Washington desperately wishes he could believe that.

  



	2. a dangerous game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Hamilton rides out of camp boundaries with John Laurens in the morning. By suppertime, John Laurens returns. 
> 
> Alexander Hamilton doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so sorry about the long wait for the chapter, but this one is extra long! Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Tw: non-consensual drug use

Alexander storms away from the general and his quarters, taking the stairs two at a time despite the fire it sends up his side to do so. 

He needs to find those notes, he’ll show Washington… he’ll  _ prove _ that the error wasn’t on his part. He slams the office door a little louder than he’d intended but it doesn’t deter his anger any, Hamilton can still feel his fury burning through his veins. 

The desk drawer rips open with a satisfying thud, his fingers leafing through all his saved papers at an unprecedented speed. He finally sees the bound stack of scrap papers where he collected the notes he used to draft his missives. Good. This is the proof he needs, he’ll annotate all his supposed mistakes and  _ show Washington _ , he’ll  _ force _ him to listen. 

But he certainly won’t do it in the general’s own office; it’s been made perfectly clear that he’s not welcome at the moment. 

Hamilton nearly crashes into Laurens as he rips out of Washington’s office. He doesn’t feel like explaining what’s just happened, even though Laurens probably knows to some extent - he was most likely woken by it - so he shoulders past his friend in favour of getting the Hell out. 

“Alexander, wait! Slow down!” Laurens calls after him, easily catching up to the boy and grabbing his arm, forcing the younger officer to face him. He lowers his voice so it’s just for them two. “What’s happened?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Hamilton mumbles.

“Frankly, I don’t care what you feel like doing; you’re upset. Come, we’ll find somewhere private to talk.” Laurens expects more of a fight, but Hamilton deflates and nods. 

“Not your chambers, I won’t- I want out of here.” 

“We needn’t stay here, there are plenty other places.” After a quick nod Hamilton rips himself from Laurens’ hold and marches himself towards the front entrance. Laurens grabs both of their cloaks and follows, wondering what the Hell could have happened that was so volatile so early in the morning. 

The door slams before he reaches it, and Laurens cringes internally and spares a glance up the stairs. There’s no shouting, no one questioning what’s going on, but when Laurens follows Hamilton out, he makes sure the door doesn’t close so loudly behind him.

* * *

“Is that all he said? That Congress called for your discharge?” 

“After accusing me of carelessness? Yes.” But Laurens sees it behind Alexander’s eyes, there was something else, something he doesn’t want to divulge even to his closest friend. 

“Is that all  _ you _ said?” 

“Of importance to this conversation? Yes.” 

“How little our friendship must matter, for you not to disclose what hurried you away from Washington’s quarters in such a speed I thought your hidden affliction cured.” Hamilton scoffs and averts his gaze, but still he feels the rush to his cheeks at his friend’s sardonic words. 

“You’re rather forward today, Colonel,” Hamilton says instead. “First rejecting my wish to keep the matter undisclosed and then scolding me when I turn out to be, in fact, uncomfortable in broadcasting the details of a private conversation.” 

“Is it forward for a man to wonder after his friend?” 

“When his friend makes it known the matter is a private one? Perhaps. You’ve yet to tell me what the general sends you riding out at all hours of the day for; do not speak in haste and discover yourself a hypocrite.” 

It is Laurens’ turn to blush. Hamilton is right, he has no right to demand the boy’s secrets with the general when he keeps such an enormous one to himself. He utters a short apology and follows Hamilton to the nearby stables. 

They don’t ride for long, it can’t be more than an hour, if that. It’s a quiet place where Alexander finally stops, and it seems to pass whatever requirements Hamilton could not find in the camp. He dismounts, tying his horse to a nearby tree. Laurens follows without a word. 

Hamilton retrieves his portable writing desk and shifts himself into a sitting position, though he can’t hide the wince as the movement pulls at his side.

“Alexander?”

“I’m fine,” Hamilton hisses in sharp reply. “It’s not that bad.” He glances up quickly enough to see Laurens open his mouth, and an instant later close it. With no more hesitation Laurens sits on the ground next to him. 

Hamilton settles his desk against his knees and removes two bundles of papers from his coat, tossing them in the space between he and Laurens.

“Explain to me exactly what we’re doing?”

“Congress blames me for the mistakes in my reports,” Alexander bites out the words and snorts at the end. “That’s why they want the general to remove me. But all of the information from the reports came from these notes, you see?” He hands the stack of reports to Laurens and takes the notes for himself. “The mistakes here aren’t mine.”

Any other man Laurens might doubt at such an arrogant sounding statement, but not Hamilton. 

“Alright,” he says, “so we find the mistakes in the letter and the information in the notes, and match them.” 

Alexander sighs in what could be relief, nodding gratefully as Laurens separates the bundles from two into four. 

“The general will have my head for missing a day’s worth of work,” Laurens mutters, eyes already scanning the document. “And for riding out here with you.” 

Alexander hums, ingrained in his work already, “When standing next to me you can rest assured his ire will not fall to you. Besides, you’re protection enough, oui?” 

“Neither of us have our pistols Hammie,” Laurens grins. This is harmless disobedience, surely. Washington will indeed reprimand them when they return but for now it is worth it to see Alexander look at him and wink, at ease in the world at last. 

“Then I suppose we’ll just have to work quickly.” 

John shakes his head in amusement, returning to his task. Congress has done them the convenience of underlining all of Alex’s alleged mistakes, making it a far easier job to find the mistaken information in the notes. Hamilton is right, he didn’t make any of these mistakes. His dictations were reported back incorrectly, he doesn’t deserve to be expelled or even suspended.

It’s nearing suppertime when Laurens finally sits back from the bundles, charcoal and ink staining his fingers. 

Alexander scans his final document furiously before making a definitive angry underline and throwing it onto their pile of stacked correspondences. 

“He’ll see now,” the boy announces, “he’ll see that I’m not at fault and I’m not being arrogant by not accepting fault.” 

“He does not think you an inept worker Alexander, even now, he merely thinks-” 

“The general thinks that my encounter with Samuel Davies has left me so broken that I’m unable to complete my tasks to a standard of his office,” Hamilton spits. “That is not the case, if anything I feel Washington is the greater affected, the way he obsesses over protection and guards and control-” 

“Alexander there was a great deal of time where we thought you dead or hours from. So do not chastise the general for now being protective, when he spent weeks wondering how he might have failed at the task so severely that you were left injured and dying in his care.” 

Alexander flushes and looks down in shame. He breathes a moment and then- “Forgive me.” 

Laurens also averts his gaze. “And I as well, I was harsh. Just- try to remember that what Washington does he does out of concern, out of  _ care _ .” 

Alexander nods wordlessly and Laurens takes it as a good moment to end the conversation. 

“Come, we must return while we still have the light.” He stands, offering Alexander a hand up which for once the boy accepts. Laurens gathers the letters back into their bundles. 

“Might you put those on Washington’s desk for me?” 

“Alexander, I am not afforded the same leniency as you, I cannot just walk into the general’s study-” 

“Please? I… I’m not quite prepared to meet him yet.” 

Casting his friend a disapproving glare, John mounts his horse. “I’m not getting in between any of you and Washington’s domestics.” 

“I’m not asking you to, I’m asking you to set them on his desk.” Alexander mounts his own horse. “Please.” 

John breathes a long sigh. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” Hamilton’s face is that of a spoilt little one, and Laurens would daresay he is. “You ride first, I’d like to collect my thoughts for a moment.” 

“More like you want me to take the brunt of any ire our disappearance has caused.” Alexander grins and quirks an eyebrow. He neither denies nor accepts the accusations. Laurens shakes his head and spurs his horse, casting one last remark behind him. “If I am discovered I’ll have your head!”

All he hears for a reply is Hamilton’s laughter. 

* * *

Laurens doesn’t stay half-asleep for long. At the general’s clearly growing panic he blinks a few more times, harder, chasing away the rest of his sleep. “Sir? Is there something wrong?” He sits up, uncaring that his commanding officer will see him in his bedclothes. “General Washington?” 

Washington is pale, his breaths coming too fast and too short to be anything but panic. He’d asked Laurens about Alexander. 

“Sir? Is something wrong with Hamilton?” No reply. Washington isn’t looking at him, he’s looking through him. “General Washington? Where is Alexander?” 

“I-I don’t know,” Washington finally gasps. “He’s not- are you sure he did not sleep here last night?” 

The desperation in the man’s voice pains Laurens, especially because it will do nothing to change his answer. “Yes sir, I always wake up when Alex comes in, he didn’t last night. I thought he was with you.” 

Worry gnaws at Laurens’ stomach, he’d been sure that Hamilton returned, he’d only left him alone for a moment... 

As if just realizing where he is Washington snaps away from John’s bed like he suddenly realized it was on fire. “This is improper. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” 

“If you cannot find Alexander that is ample reason to rouse me Your Excellency.” Washington nods and meets Laurens’ eye, and the general sees the guilt hidden within them. 

“Laurens,” he starts slowly, “you left with Hamilton yesterday morning. You two were absent for hours, where did you go?” 

Although Hamilton had been placed on leave Laurens had technically still been on duty, he was meant to report to Washington that morning and hadn’t. When he reappeared that evening he and the other men expected him to get a thorough tongue lashing, but Washington hadn’t done anything to punish or even chastise him - the other men rolled their eyes and whispered of more favouritism. 

“I... we-” 

“ _ John _ .” 

“We didn’t go far outside the camp’s boundaries sir!” Sitting up in bed, dressed in little more than his nightshirt and hair sprawled over and around his shoulders, Laurens looks every bit his few twenty-three years, like a child pleading innocence to their schoolmaster. “Alex needed- he was going to leave on his own anyways, he was upset… I went with him.” 

“On horseback?” Washington knows his tone is too harsh as Laurens jumps in place and refuses to meet his eye, but he cannot rectify that now. 

“Yes sir, only to the halfway point between here and the town sir.” 

“And what time did you two return from this halfway point?” 

Laurens meets Washington’s eyes and the general immediately knows what he’s about to say. Those eyes are filled with guilt and worry and confusion. “A little after supper? Alexander gave me those letters to deliver to your office and said he’d join me in the evening, he was supposed to be right behind me. I heard someone come in and I thought it was him and that you two had merely resolved your… row. I thought he slept in his own bed.” 

Washington is angry at the situation - no he’s  _ terrified _ about the situation - but that terror manifests as anger and there’s nothing for that anger to direct itself at except the poor boy confessing in front of him. 

“You left him alone?” The general’s voice comes as a dangerous hiss which Laurens can do naught but flinch at.

“No! He was meant to be behind me, he only asked for a moment alone to collect his thoughts. He needed to be alone-” 

“No, he  _ wanted _ to be alone, he  _ needed _ to be kept safe! For God’s sake John you of all men should know why he should not be left alone outside the camp’s boundaries!” 

“I’m sorry,” Laurens whispers. He watches Washington carefully, muscles taut in fear he knows should be unfounded. “Your Excellency, what’s happened?” 

“The incorrect notes, they’re in Davies’ handwriting.” Laurens gapes at that revelation. But then that would mean- 

“He was waiting for Alexander to be expelled for his mistakes.” 

“Evidently.” There is nothing but fury in Washington’s eyes, nothing but ice in his voice. Laurens bows his head again in response. “And yet I did not expel him, he would have been fine if he’d not left the camp grounds!” 

It’s his fault. Washington clearly thinks so. Laurens should have stayed with Alexander, despite the fit he would have thrown if his friend were to persist. “I’ll take a horse and search for him, just give me a moment’s time-”

“Never mind Colonel, I’ll send  _ other _ men to search for Colonel Hamilton.” 

Laurens stares up at him and Washington can see the guilt in his eyes, how crushed he looks. He blinks quickly - forcing away tears Washington realizes - and Washington feels a jab of guilt in his own gut. He’s almost made this boy cry, whose only crime was indulging his brother. 

“Please allow me to accompany the search party.” 

Washington’s remorse does not show on his face, but he does not shout at Laurens again. Washington nods stiffly and jerks out of the room, shutting the door behind him with a resounding thud which reverberates far longer in John’s head. 

Laurens lets out a breath and then is scrambling to dress himself; this is his fault, he was the last to see Alexander before he was- he knew that Davies is still alive- he knew and Alexander didn’t… 

Now his best friend, his  _ brother _ , might be in a living Hell that he was unaware still loomed over the horizon. 

* * *

Beer tastes vile, Alexander has always thought so, but he drinks it anyways. Men don’t drink beer for its pleasantries after all. 

Right now it gives him something to do to escape, and as long as it takes to finish his second he does not have to return to the camp. After this one however he will return, he’s had plenty. Any more and he’ll be on his way to drunk. 

Well actually… perhaps he ought to stop before then. He might be well on his way to drunk  _ now _ . He’s not eaten all day, he realizes, Washington will be even more displeased with him if he returns to camp roaring drunk. 

Someone sits across from him and Hamilton does _ not _ want company right now. He lifts his head to tell the stranger so and feels himself go absolutely rigid. 

Davies. 

How-

How is he alive? Washington told him that he was dead. He  _ saw _ him fall to the general’s bullet- 

Hamilton pushes away from the table, trying to put as much distance between him and his tormentor, but the man catches his wrist and pulls him back. It’s too easy. Hamilton’s limbs feel weighed down by a force outside his own body, unnaturally heavy and compliant. 

“Don’t scream now,” Davies grins. “Sit down, let’s just talk.” 

Sit? Hamilton does. He’s not sure why. He… he should want to leave. He _ does _ want to leave. But sitting makes sense right now. So he sits.

“I’ve so missed you Colonel, these past few months,” Davies’ tone is far too casual, but it still has that sadistic quality that Alexander remembers from their encounters and his nightmares thereafter. Hamilton wants to run. Why can’t he run? “What have you been up to, pet? Keeping busy? I see that nasty wound never properly healed, shame.” 

Davies smirks at the unsaid question in Hamilton’s eyes. “Your general is a fine shot,” the man reaches for his shirt collar and pulls it back, revealing a jagged scar against the side of his neck, “but he’s not the best. He missed the vital regions of the neck. And true, most men die anyways from a shot like this one, but I had very good doctors.” 

Hamilton grunts, his limbs are so heavy and he can’t understand  _ why _ . He only had a few-

His eyes dart to where his beers sit, and then back to Davies. In his hand Davies fiddles with a vial, flipping it up and down and around his fingers. It’s empty. 

“Just something to help us along, pet,” he explains. 

How? How did he… And then it strikes Hamilton's muddled mind. Davies has been watching him, following him. Whatever substance had been in that vial was in his drink before it ever got to him. 

“You still look thirsty. Go ahead," Davies prompts him out of his head. "Finish it all in one go.” 

Hamilton doesn’t want to, he knows it’s drugged Davies has just told him it’s drugged but- he drinks it until he chokes and even then he gulps down more. It’s like a compulsion, like he can’t say no. 

Something lights up in Davies’ eyes as he watches Hamilton struggle to finish his drink. By the end he reeks of alcohol and everything around him has gone fuzzy. His ears ring like they do when a pistol is fired and the world sends tingles through his skin. 

Davies stands and wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him in tight against his side. 

When Hamilton stands he expects the sharp pain of his wound, but it doesn’t come. It should hurt, he knows. There’s a lot of things that should be happening but aren’t, he can’t remember what they are. 

“My poor friend I think has had a few too many,” Davies says distantly. Or right next to his ear. Hamilton doesn’t know. “I’ll get him to his bed safely.” 

This is wrong. Alexander can feel it deep in his soul; something is _ wrong _ . But… but he’s not sure what it is. He’s not sure what… what’s happening right now. What anything is. 

Words. He doesn’t know what the words are. 

Davies pulls him along and he stumbles, breathless mumbles of “No…” and “Stop” slipping from his lips, though he doesn’t know why he says them. Nobody spares a second glance, this is a common scene coming from the pub.

When Davies disappears into the night with him no one sees anything out of the ordinary. 

* * *

The words fall from Washington’s mouth easily, orders for men to ride immediately to search for Colonel Hamilton. 

There’s confusion, of course there is, but he is in no mood to explain himself. His men should obey anyways. 

The small group of soldiers return, Hamilton is not to be found in any nearby area or surroundings, not even where Laurens points them to, the clearing they spent the previous day in. His horse is still missing from the stables, by all accounts it is likely he did not return to the camp. 

The terror Washington feels is familiar now, how it clutches at his heart and suffocates his lungs. It’s all too coincidental… Davies handwriting in the notes, Alexander’s disappearance, Washington knows something is wrong he _ knows _ . 

What if Davies had been waiting for this? That must have been his plan, to wait until the mistakes he forced onto Alexander’s head roused Congress to demand his suspension. 

Whether or not he thought Washington would truly expel him, Washington doesn’t know, but he must have known it would be enough to prompt Alexander to leave the camp. Foolish, stubborn, boy. 

Foolish, stubborn, boy who Washington cannot bear to lose. 

Please be safe, please, please, please be safe. 

Washington hears Davies voice near every night in his sleep, promising and threatening all in one, describing how he’d make Alexander  _ scream _ , holding the boy too close and too tightly. 

Washington still does not know what possessed him to take the shot, but he knows that in the following hours when it was still unsure if the war could proceed due to the false orders he had looked at the sleeping boy, safe and sound in his bed, and decided it’d been worth it. 

Why didn’t Washington go after him? He was upset, they both were, why did he let the pair of them leave the camp when he could have so easily called Alexander back. He doesn’t care what was said anymore, he doesn’t care if Hamilton made the mistakes himself or not. He just needs to find his- 

“Your Excellency, Colonel Hamilton might be anywhere. Perhaps he took it upon himself to deliver the early morning missives himself, maybe he did return after all…” 

Washington says nothing of Hamilton’s suspension. He won’t, it was made under false circumstances anyhow. 

“I am almost certain that this is not the case. Keep looking. We all know how dangerous situations such as these can become, I’ll not have a repeated history. We cannot afford to lose Colonel Hamilton, if the British were to question him for information I’m sure he would not willingly give it up, but I worry if they were to try and use more aggressive means.” 

“Yes, Your Excellency.” The man salutes and rushes away. 

Torture. Washington is talking about torture. But he knows that if that is truly the case then it will not be the British administering it, no, it would be someone far worse. And there’s nothing in Heaven, Hell or the Earth that Washington would be able to do to stop it. 

The sudden severity of the situation becomes apparent to the men, and they rush to organize themselves in a broader, more thorough manner. Washington is not questioned again, until he orders his own horse brought to him. 

“Your Excellency, you mustn’t ride out yourself,” one of the other aides urges him. “It’s too much of a risk if you are not to be accompanied.” 

Before Washington can object that his orders are not to be argued with another voice interjects. “His Excellency will not be unaccompanied.” 

Laurens leads two horses, his own and Washington’s. He salutes, and then hands Washington the reins to the stead. Washington takes them gratefully, too aware of the angry words he’d spat at the boy earlier; Laurens must be exhausted, he’s been riding hard all day. 

“You heard the general, he will be assisting the search parties while others are to be organized and dispersed,  _ now. _ ” There will be grumbling later, that Laurens orders these men as if he were above their station, but they move to obey him and to Washington that is all that matters. 

The boy bows his head to Washington, waiting for something Washington himself doesn’t know how to give. 

“Mount, Colonel,” Washington orders instead, “we ride hard for the town.” 

“Yes sir.” 

Laurens rides first, for his duty is to take any bullets that might wait for them first, instead of the general. Washington follows not far behind, his thoughts clouded with guilts and regrets and what-ifs, enough to drive a man mad. 

As he watches Laurens’ back he comes to one of many conclusions; of strategy and war and literature and language Washington was well taught, but apparently, how to properly communicate with young twenty-something men in his care he was not. 

Laurens and Washington search, but just like all of Washington’s efforts to do the right thing their efforts are useless. They find nothing. The barkeep mentions he perhaps saw a young man matching Hamilton’s description earlier in the evening. Perhaps he left with an older man dressed as an officer, but he can’t be sure.

* * *

“Your Excellency, sir!” Washington’s just barely dismounted his horse when a soldier jogs up to him, saluting stiffly before dropping his hand into his messenger bag. “A letter sir, marked urgent. I recognized it as Colonel Hamilton’s handwriting.”

Washington is quite sure he can feel his heart stop. But that’s impossible, for it thunders just as noticeably in his ears. “Give it here.” 

The messenger passes him the missive, and sure enough handwriting he knows better than his own decorates the page. 

_ Urgent: For the desk of General George Washington  _ the inscription is simple, standard, and yet Washington feels something insidious behind it.

“Thank you Officer,” Washington barely glances from the letter to address the messenger. “Please inform my guard I’ll not be seeing anyone for the remainder of the evening.” 

“Yes, Your Excellency.” The man salutes and rushes away, and Washington is left staring in his wake. 

Does he know what he’s just delivered? Does Washington? 

* * *

The room he’s in barely sees the light of day. Alexander knows by now the sun should be coming up, they travelled for hours. 

It’s comfortable, it reminds him of his room back home, or… Washington’s room anyhow. But darker. The candles spread throughout it cast an orange glow against the expensive furniture and velvet blankets on the bed. The window is so small that hardly any light gets through, and even though this room is furnished almost exactly like Washington’s it doesn’t feel like… home. 

Davies pulls him towards a desk and pushes him into the seat. His hands linger against his shoulders, an ever present pressure warning him from trying to stand. 

“I want you to take a letter,” he murmurs, too close to Hamilton’s ear. 

Alexander nods, this makes sense. This is what he does. The hand on his left shoulder pulls away and opens the desk, producing ink pot and quill. Hamilton is quick to trim the quill and set a piece of parchment at attention; this is what he does. 

“Dear General Washington,” Davies starts, lips curling into a satisfied grin as Hamilton’s hand moves immediately. “I know you are wondering where I’ve gone, and more importantly worrying about who I am with.”

Davies is quite satisfied with himself, he’s mastered plenty of things in his lifetime and his concoctions are one such substance, but to accurately estimate the exact amount needed to get his pet behaving exactly as he wants him - obedient, subservient, but still _ there  _ \- is a true indication of his genius. 

“I write to you today to tell you that your worry is perfectly founded. I’ve been reclaimed by my rightful master and am in his care now. He wants to thank you, for your carelessness, marksmanship and stubbornness; without all three I would surely still be safe within your camp.” 

* * *

Washington hand trembles as he holds the letter, and his knuckles turn white as he clutches it in an iron hold. 

_ You’ve known for weeks now that Samuel Davies lived on, and yet when I was caught I was caught unawares. But still, you should count your blessings, Your Excellency, that my dear friend John Laurens was not at my side when my master came to retrieve me, for he knew and would have had to die for it.  _

He can’t breathe, there’s a pressure against his chest and it is pressing against his lungs. Air won’t fill them, no matter how hard Washington tries.

_ As for the marksmanship, if you had checked Davies’ wound you would have seen that it was not an immediately fatal one. You should have understood that your fear of hitting me would throw your aim to the side, even unconsciously. I shall take your penance for delivering a wound against my master, and he wants you to know that it will be agony.  _

_ You had to have known that you could never be enough to protect me.  _

This couldn’t be happening, how could- 

Washington doesn’t recognize the sound that comes from his throat as he drops into his chair like a stone.

* * *

“I’ll be sure to update you often as to how I’m progressing, or rather, my master will. He’s certain you’ll be interested to know.”

Davies paces the floor behind him, and as easily as the words roll from his tongue, Alexander copies them to the parchment. At last he stops, and then his hands are back, fingers curling around his shoulders.

“That should do it, pet. Sign your name.”

Alexander does, with his natural flourish.

Then Davies moves again, rounds the desk and takes a seat on the other side. “Fold and seal it, and address it to His Excellency.”

Alexander does.

“He’ll recognize your writing, won’t he?”

“Yes,” the answer comes before Hamilton can stop himself. There is no stopping whatever this is, it seems. He can’t think, can’t run, he can’t even bring himself to move.

Because he wasn’t told to.

Davies takes the finished, folded letter and carefully sets it aside to allow for the wax to dry. 

His hand slithers from Alexander’s shoulder to rest against overtop his wrist, he feels the boy’s pulse beat against his fingertips. 

He snaps his wrist. It’s easy. 

“Well, you won’t be needing that anymore, will you, pet?” 

Without so much as a flinch, his wrist bent at an unnatural angle, Hamilton looks at him and shakes his head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	3. almost like praying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a new normal.
> 
> Things are the same as they ever were.
> 
> None of that can possibly be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof almost two months without an update. So sorry again everyone. This isn't our longest chapter, but there's a lot of content here. We hope you enjoy!
> 
> A note that this chapter contains implied sexual content and assault.

Laurens’ eyes frantically scan the page, taking in the information with a growing knot of dread forming in his stomach. He stands in the middle of the general’s office, he’s refused to sit. Each word he reads is a punch to the gut.

It’s his fault. It’s his fault. It’s his fault.  _ It’s his fault. _

He should never have left Alexander alone, he knew- he knew about Davies. Davies knew that Laurens had been trying to find him, he’d been so close. 

He’s failed to locate Davies, he’s failed to protect his best friend. He’s failed. 

Laurens glances from the letter to Washington, who looks just as devastated, slumped in his desk and unseeing to the world. He’s lost his son. He’s lost his son because John was too stupid to protect him as he should have, too careless. 

They’d been having fun. 

He needs to make this right. 

“I’ll ride out immediately sir,” Laurens starts, setting the letter back on Washington’s desk with near reverent care. “They cannot be more than a day’s ride away from the camp, this letter was delivered so quickly… If I am alone I can ride all the harder.” 

Washington’s eyes widen, suddenly alert. “No! No, you are to do no such thing.” 

Does the boy not see the explicit threat against his very life within the letter? Davies will kill him. He will do it without hesitation and without mercy-  _ Colonel Laurens is a rather dashing man as well, isn’t he? _ It’s not because Laurens knows too much but because it will pain Washington all the more. 

Washington sees something he does not often see in John’s eyes; anger. 

“Are you suggesting we do nothing?!” And Laurens has never once raised his voice to him in such a manner. “He has Alexander! He’s going to- he’s going to torture him! He’s forcing Alex to call him master. We must act now! We cannot just- just let them go! Sir, if you will not allow me to search for him then I will resign my commission and-”

“You will not do that either!” Washington is on his feet in an instant, slamming a hand against his desk. Laurens freezes. 

The rage, the desperation, the fear, everything shining through Laurens’ eyes and his voice is a reflection of how Washington himself feels. But he cannot allow his emotions to cloud his judgement, not again. 

He won’t lose anyone else to this monster. 

“Are you suggesting I want to find him any less than you do?” He says calmly, levelling Laurens with a steady gaze. 

The boy calms, even bows his head guiltily. “No. No, of course not sir. Forgive me.” His shoulders slump. “I just- we must find them sir, I’ll never forgive myself if-” the boy swallows his emotion, but Washington sees the pain in his eyes all the same. 

“Davies has threatened you specifically, and he has proved dangerous beyond our understanding; you will not ride alone. And yes, that is an order, Colonel. Even if you do manage to find them, your efforts will be useless - a corpse cannot deliver messages.” 

John almost protests. He’s a good rider, an excellent soldier, he can find them. But he doesn’t; Washington is right, he’d be outnumbered and expected. 

“Yes sir,” he murmurs instead. 

Washington summoned him here, he will not leave until he’s dismissed. He expects Washington to wave a hand, tell him to take his leave, imply that he wishes to be alone, but nothing of the sort comes. Instead, the general scrutinizes him in such a way that it feels far deeper than Laurens is accustomed to from his commander. 

“It is not your fault.” The general says at last. A single sentence to steal John’s breath. “I’ve once again wronged you by implying so, John. My emotions got the better of me, and for that I am sorry. But understand me now, and understand me clearly, this is not your fault. Alexander is a man with his own will and agency, and I daresay a stubbornness which you rival.”

Laurens looks away, feeling his cheeks flush but the edges of his mouth turning upwards. Hamilton is always so stubborn, being compared to him is a feat indeed. 

“You are not his keeper, he is his own. We will do everything in our power to bring Hamilton home,” Washington assures, “but I will not lose another to that psychopath, nor will I allow you to believe you must atone for a sin which is not your own.” 

Laurens swallows, and then nods. “Yes, Your Excellency.” 

Washington finds his gaze and holds it, a promise shining in his own; they’ll find him. 

… 

They don’t.   
… 

Days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months and Hamilton is unaware of all of it. Time passes fluidly, without much respect for chronology. Some days he is sure that it is only his first few days in this manor, and some days it feels like he’s always been there. 

His mind is so clouded all the time, like his thoughts are just ahead of him in a great fog that never clears, no matter how he runs for its edge. 

Whenever Davies is around him it seems he’s been here for centuries. His mind submits to any and all suggestion from the man, obedience and pain being the only things Alexander knows while in his presence. 

He kneels in front of Davies, and accepts the scrap of meat the man offers without so much as glancing in his direction. The man is drafting correspondence right now, he’ll sometimes nudge at Alexander’s chin with his knee or absentmindedly hold food out for him, but his focus is not his pet. Right now.

And then it is. Davies boot hooks his shoulder, pushing him onto all fours. “Stay there,” he orders, and Hamilton’s limbs lock. Davies rests his boots on top of Alexander’s shoulder, and in another life Alexander is sure his cheeks would have flushed in indignation. Now, he tucks his head and waits for Davies to say he can come down. 

Sometimes Alexander wonders what else there is out there, than this. Samuel insists that there’s nothing, and often hits him if he asks, so he doesn’t ask anymore. But he remembers there was more. No he doesn’t. He  _ feels  _ there was more, and he can’t remember it. 

Fingers wisp through his hair, ghost over his neck, tilt his chin up and pull at his bottom lip tauntingly. Alexander looks up when Davies beckons him to do so but doesn’t meet the man’s eyes. He opens his mouth obediently when Davies brings another scrap of food towards him, and feels a pat to the head after he’s taken the food.

Alexander wonders when his pride had left him so completely that he’s _ comforted  _ that Davies is pleased right now, that he is not being slapped or otherwise hurt. 

Because he remembers the hurt. He remembers screaming and begging for mercy that didn’t come. 

“If he could see you now,” Davies murmurs, mostly to himself. He’s smirking, that ever so satisfied smirk pulling his mouth into an expression that Hamilton hates, almost most of all. (There is one above it, dangerous and hungry, and that one is worse.) 

_ He _ \- Davies talks about him a lot,  _ he _ , he doesn’t have a name. Not one that Hamilton knows. But the boy wonders about he, he suggests there  _ was  _ something before this, someone out there that would at the very least be surprised at how Alexander acts now. 

Alex wonders if he was kinder, if Alexander was stolen from he, or if he stole Hamilton from Samuel; Samuel insists that Alexander belongs  _ here, _ after all, that Hamilton’s  _ always  _ belonged here. 

He’s allowed after some time to wander the manor on his own. In no time at all he knows it by heart and not at all. When he’s not being used, not needed, he spends his time walking the halls, though he doesn’t know why.

Sometimes he sees the girl.

She’s young, barely more than a child. He knows her and yet he doesn’t at the same time. She’s a slave, dressed plainly, a cloth partially covering her long dark hair. When he walks by she glances at him with dark eyes, and quickly looks away.

Davies calls her Emilie, has her bring things, take others away, always quick to dismiss her.

Sometimes Alexander opens his mouth intending to talk to her, but any words he might say are lost in unending fog.

Later, after Emilie has silently handed him whatever he’ll wear for dinner and padded away, after he’s eaten his meal on the floor like the pet Davies insists he is, there will be silk sheets and a pressure on his chest, a rhythm, and he will not be able to breathe. 

Later, he will ache. And then he will lay in bed and hate himself and wish that whatever Samuel puts in his food would just let him  _ think _ . 

Then he will wake up and do it again.

… 

One day, the routine breaks. 

Emilie slips into Davies’ study, leather soles barely making noise against his floor. Whenever she is in here she tries not to look at Alexander, but he always looks at her. She’s skinny and young - really, she can’t be more than fifteen, she’s so small - and like a fawn, timid and curious all in one. 

She hands a message to her master and ducks away. 

She’s not supposed to speak with Hamilton but Hamilton knows that they could speak in French if she would try. 

He thinks that she should be free, he doesn’t know why though. He can’t remember. He doesn’t know what free means. 

Today Alexander is displayed over the chaise, draped over it and reading because that’s what Davies wants him to do in some false normalcy. He doesn’t enjoy this book, but that’s irrelevant. 

His mind wanders as his hands absently turn pages, and his gaze settles on Davies as he reads the slip of parchment. Samuel’s face splits into a grin, predatory, and his eyes find Alexander’s, razor sharp. 

“Up, pet,” Davies orders, standing from his desk and beckoning Alexander forward. Hamilton drops the book and obeys immediately, meeting Davies halfway. 

The man is too close when he begins unbuttoning Hamilton’s waistcoat, tossing it onto the chaise with the discarded book. 

“You won’t be needing that today, love,” Davies whispers, twining his fingers around Hamilton’s braid and bringing it forward to rest on his shoulder. “We’re making a point.” 

Alexander doesn’t ask questions, he doesn’t do that anymore. 

Davies leads him through the corridors, into the parlour, and finally to the corner of his favourite chair. Hamilton kneels instinctively, knowing the push to his shoulders is coming anyways. Davies pats his head, like an appreciated dog, and takes his place in the chair. 

“Now you just sit there and look pretty,” he murmurs, fingers slithering around the back of Hamilton’s neck and resting there. 

It’s a possessive hold, one that’s meant to mark territory. 

They don’t wait long, footsteps grow closer and closer from the corridor, some stumbling and some steady as stone. The parlour door is flung open, three men thrown in followed by a few of Davies’ guards. 

“Ah, my guests,” Davies grins, clapping his hands together once and grinning a saccharine smile. He indicates a spot in front of the chair and his guards throw the men there. When they stumble and fall, they cannot catch themselves, their arms bound behind them; they’re prisoners, Hamilton realizes. They’re wearing blue coats. He had one once, and it was taken and burned in front of him, ages ago.

He recognizes the coats with something of a long buried instinct. Soldiers. Did that make him a soldier too? 

Pulled onto their knees, the men finally look up at Davies and then to- “Hamilton?!” 

They know him. 

But he- he doesn’t know them, he can’t remember. 

“Hamilton, General Washington has been worried sick about you. He’s grieved these last months, mourning your loss!” 

Something sparks then, like gunpowder meeting a flame. Hamilton’s eyes brighten and he meets the man’s eyes properly for the first time. “Washington?” 

He. Washington is he, Hamilton just knows it. He feels more aware, more  _ here _ , than he has in months. 

Davies draws his gun and shoots the soldier who spoke, splattering his blood on his stunned companions. When Hamilton turns his head to look at his expression the man snatches his jaw in an eagle’s grip, nails digging uncomfortably into his cheeks. He looks furious. 

“My darling Alexander is of no concern to that man,” he hisses, “he now belongs to me. Everything he is, I own.” Alexander watches the men regard him and Davies, and he knows what they must think. Free men watching a master and his pet. Samuel releases his jaw and strokes his hair instead, bringing his braid over his shoulder again. “He belongs with me.” 

Hamilton doesn’t know if they look ill because their comrade lies dead beside them or if it is the display Davies is putting on, making him into. Perhaps it is both. 

They wait, for the Hamilton from before would not let this go unchecked, he’d bite and spew vitriol and curse his captor for ever insinuating ownership. Today, Hamilton remains on his knees before them and casts his eyes down, and lets the man touch him however he pleases. 

He hadn’t flinched when this man shot their comrade. 

“I will not kill either of you,” Davies announces, abruptly releasing Hamilton’s jaw. His attention returns to the two remaining scouts. “I have a message for you to deliver to His Excellency.” 

By the time he’s finished speaking to the men Hamilton’s forgotten the words that came from his mouth, but from the open door he watches the two men ride off in opposite directions. He’s pulled back inside, the door slams, and his world reverts to the way it’s seemingly always been.

… 

“I need to see His Excellency, immediately!” Washington hears the voice from downstairs, hears the accompanying denials. He’s left orders that he is not to be disturbed today.

This one, however, is insisting he be let through. 

“It’s about Alexander Hamilton!” 

Washington throws the door open so forcefully it slams into the wall, and a thick silence falls immediately after. 

“My office,” Washington orders, schooling his expression into one of his station and not this one of _ hope _ and _ fear  _ and  _ worry _ . 

The scout scrambles into Washington’s private office just as Washington reaches the bottom of the stairs. Washington himself had spent less and less time here in the past few months, because he looks over at  _ his _ desk and it’s empty and it’s unbearable. His room is little better, with an empty cot and too quiet nights.

“Speak quickly and speak frank,” he says as soon as he’s in the room. There is no time for pleasantries now. 

“A man I can only assume was Samuel Davies captured my scouting party of three, sir,” the scout begins, “he shot and killed Wilson, and sent me and Smith back with a message for you.” 

Washington says nothing, but his hands clench into fists on top of his desk. 

“Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton was there, sir,” the scout continues, “by Davies’ side. He just- he was just kneeling there, he didn’t say a word. He was in his own world, and then Wilson said your name and he snapped out of it, only for a moment, and I think that’s why Wilson was killed.” 

Washington had received a few of Davies’ so called ‘updates’, written in Alexander’s hand. They had detailed all the manners of torture Davies had inflicted on his charge and how Alexander had screamed- but they had never mentioned this. Washington supposes he stopped writing the updates when the torture stopped and the brainwashing began. 

He had thought that Alexander might have been killed. He is not quite ready to admit that some part of him hoped he’d been killed to escape the pain.

“You mentioned a message.” 

“Yes sir, after he fired the shot Davies took hold of Hamilton’s jaw, and was touching his hair and he was… gentle. Hamilton didn’t resist in the slightest. Davies explained that Hamilton was now his, whatever that might mean sir, and said- he said- he says that he would have you over for supper. Alone. Tomorrow evening if you’re amiable.” 

… 

Alexander wakes in the small hours of the morning, when the sun just barely crests the horizon. 

For the first time in months he wakes and he has a clear head. 

But all his memories are hazy and unorganized and they rocket to the forefront of his mind, demanding attention, demanding _ order _ that he cannot give them. It’s a jumbled mess, it’s a mess of, 

_ Did I do that?  _

_ Why did I do that?  _

_ Where am I?  _

_ Who brought me here?  _

And then finally, terrifyingly; 

_ I shouldn’t be here. _

Alexander doesn’t understand a lot, but he knows that he sees Davies in his memories and remembers kneeling for him and going with him and it’s all a patchwork of memory that he can barely decipher. 

He flings himself up from the bed - his bed, he thinks, - and wastes no time getting shoes or cloak or anything else. All he wants to do right now is  _ run _ . Davies must have forgotten whatever it was he puts in his drink, that’s why he can think. 

He knows every corridor, every door, like some deep innate knowledge trapped in his head, and it barely takes a few minutes for him to be at the main entrance. 

Hamilton’s hand is on the handle, freedom is but a hair’s length away, and yet… he stops. 

Something stops him. An instinct, a whisper in his mind;  _ don’t go, you’re not supposed to go, this isn’t right _ . 

But another, far louder piece of his mind screams at him to _ get moving, _ so Hamilton does. And the door is locked. 

Cursing, he looks around. He knows where the study is, he can go there and draft a message, even if he can’t find a way out at least something of his will be out there. It’s still early, the messengers might not have even left yet. 

He crashes into the office, and the whisper comes back, urgent.  _ Careful. Too loud. You’ll wake him.  _ Still Hamilton races for the table, pulls parchment and quill and ink from drawers he knows by heart and places it all on the table. He dips the quill into the pot and his hand hovers just above the page. 

The words don’t come.

This is what he does. He writes; letters and orders and notes and personal correspondence. For years, writing has come as second nature. Effortless.

But now the words elude him, lost somewhere in his head along with other information he cannot begin to fathom.

Hamilton huffs and violently throws the parchment and quill to the ground, knocks over the inkpot, and spins to try the door again.

And there stands Davies in the doorway. Alexander swears he feels his heart stop in that moment. His feet move on their own accord, backwards,  _ away. _ There’s nowhere to go.

“Going somewhere, pet?” Davies moves into the room, movements sharp and quick. Hamilton’s response freezes in his throat, not that he was certain it was there in the first place. “You’re not planning to run off on me, are you?”

Hamilton shifts back again. There’s no getting past him back into the hall; Davies looks larger than he ever has. Stronger.

Suddenly there’s a hand in his hair, ripping strands from his scalp. Davies turns, twisting him and slamming him into the desk. Something glass breaks near his ear. The spilled inkpot.  _ “Answer  _ me!”

“L-let go,” The words barely get past his lips, and the vice in his hair tightens and pulls his head back to tilt back his neck and it  _ hurts _ . 

Davies abruptly yanks him away from the desk and forces him into the hall. That grip stays tight, forces him to face the ceiling. They round a corner and then he’s slammed into a wall and the air is forced from his lungs. 

Then a bottle is forced against his lips, and liquid poured down his throat and  _ no, no, no _ he doesn’t  _ want  _ this. But it doesn’t stop, and ultimately he has to swallow to save himself from drowning. Davies keeps going, and the wine spills everywhere, down his chin and tunic. And finally,  _ finally _ it stops. More glass shatters as Davies throws the bottle, and only then does he release him and let him fall to the floor. 

“Now, now, love,” Davies tuts, nudging Hamilton with his boot, “don’t be difficult. Don’t you appreciate me and my gifts?” 

“Of course, always.” Hamilton responds with surety but not his own consent, the words fall from his mouth before he can think to stop them. 

“And you know I’ve made you mine.”

“Completely.” Alexander can’t stop himself from replying. His eyes widen in alarm, he doesn’t understand-

“Completely,” Davies agrees. “I’m in your head, sweet thing. Every thought, every word, it’s  _ mine _ . Just like you.” 

“N-no,” Hamilton trembles, “no you can’t have-” he can’t have invaded his  _ mind _ , his mind is his own, it’s all the only thing he can keep safe and protected and  _ his _ .

“Show me how much you love me, pet,” Davies commands, and something  _ clicks  _ in Hamilton’s brain. 

He curls forward and kisses Davies’ boot, and he doesn’t know why. Davies didn’t tell him to, he just- he did it on his own, he- he feels like he’s losing his mind. He’s already lost it. 

Davies leans down and grips his hair again, pulling him from the floor. “That’s good, pet. This was all a game, you see. You know where you truly belong. You know to  _ whom  _ you truly belong.”

“Yes.”

Fingers yank and twist his hair again. “Say it.”

“You.”

“Good boy,” Davies pats his cheek before pulling him back to his feet. He leaves him there and steps into the next room.

Alexander doesn’t move. His mind buzzes from the wine, and from what Davies has just told him. It’s real, all of it. Somehow he truly believes this now.

A moment later Davies reappears with a set of clothes, and thrusts them into his arms. “Be a good pet now and get changed. We’re expecting a guest for supper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are somehow getting even more intense now, aren't they?
> 
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	4. your obedient servant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington attends the most important supper of his life. And he's terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait guys, but understandably the world has been kind of crazy! We hope some entertainment for your quarantine helps!

It’s difficult, Alexander finds, to move his fingers correctly to button the waistcoat Davies gave him. They don’t move like they used to, stiff and slow like they belong to an old man, and the ones on his right hand won’t fully straighten. There’s an incomplete memory in his head; Davies takes his wrist, smiles, and there’s a snap-

The sound echoes in Alexander’s ears and his body jerks instinctively. His head shoots up; he finds himself looking into hollow dark eyes and barely recognizes his own face in the mirror. 

The soldiers from the day before flash before his eyes. They’d known him. They’d called him Hamilton. He’s not sure that name is his anymore, or if that was ever really him. Davies never calls him that. And they’d known He, Washington. The name sparks  _ something,  _ but he can’t get to it, not properly. A blurry face in his mind that refuses to fully take form.

The door opens and Alexander doesn’t have time to blink before Samuel is gripping his arm, - too tight - and dragging him away from the mirror so he could examine him instead. 

“Your hair is a mess,” the man hisses, slapping Alexander lightly for it. “Knees.” 

Alex drops immediately, staring ahead numbly. Davies hums to himself as he retrieves the hairbrush, returning and standing behind him, pulling the braid loose and running his fingers through it. 

“You’d be lost without me.” 

“Yes Master,” Alex replies immediately, against his will. His face burns hot all of the sudden, more words that have somehow invaded his mind. It’s not even  _ his _ anymore, is it? “I’m nothing without what you’ve given me.” 

“And you know I’ve made you mine.” Davies begins brushing out the tangles, taming Alexander’s constantly wild hair.

“Completely.” 

“Yes,” Alex hears the smile in Samuel’s voice, “completely.” His fingers begin to work on the braid, making his pet the picture of  _ his  _ ideal, of  _ his  _ perfect. 

When he finishes Davies steps in front of his captive, satisfied smirk ever plastered on his face. “Show me how much you love me, pet,” he whispers, watching with glee as Alexander’s conditioning clicks. 

He kisses his boot, and then stays bowed.

Alexander stays where he is until Davies rips him up with the same grip on his arm. One of the man’s hands snakes around his jaw and holds him still, and he sees the boy’s eyes flutter closed as Davies presses his lips against his pet’s.

By all means, it’s chaste. Barely there and then gone. 

So why does Alexander feel so ruined by it? 

He stares at Davies, eyes full of an emotion that he can’t identify anymore, that he hasn’t been allowed to feel for months. 

“Come, we shan’t keep my guest waiting,” Davies says after a moment, patting Alex’s cheek and then dragging him towards the door. 

A lance of pain shoots up the boy’s side and he cries out, pulling away from Davies. The man stops, regards him for a moment with an unreadable look, and then jerks him forward again, uncaring for his pain.

Alex cannot figure out why that pain is the first thing that’s made sense in a long while. 

* * *

“You cannot possibly be thinking of going  _ alone?”  _ John shows little restraint as he berates his general, and Washington resists the urge to sigh. He paces the length of his office and John is barely a step behind, his face red.

“Of course I am John, and you know it.” 

“I want Alex back as much as you do, Your Excellency, but surely- surely you see that this is a blatant trap!”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Then you must know all this will do is lose you both to us!” 

Washington whirls on him. “What would you rather I do? Forget about him? Do  _ nothing?!” _

Laurens almost retreats, but at the last minute he steadies himself and doesn’t step back. “Let me come along. Send men. General, you cannot do this alone! You cannot-”

“You are dismissed, Colonel,” Washington says it with a finality that leaves no room for further argument. He’s barely holding his temper in check as it is. 

Finally Laurens does step away, glaring furiously at the ground. Washington pretends not to see the tears in his eyes. He mutters a “Yes, sir,” and then he turns to go.

“Colonel.”

“Sir?” Laurens stops at the door.

“If we do not return within a week, you’ll dispatch a squad to the same location. And do not take prisoners.”

Another moment passes and Laurens is gone. Washington reaches for the pistol on his desk, but he stops himself. The message from Davies orders him to come alone and unarmed. He cannot risk losing Alexander for good.

* * *

Washington arrives at the manor the scout had directed him to just before sundown, perfectly on time for their supper. Trepidation curls sour in his gut, his hands clenching and unclenching as he made his approach. 

A stablehand takes his horse from him, he gives her up willingly, but he imagines there wasn’t much choice to the matter. 

He ascends the steps to the main entrance, ignoring the voice in his head that’s telling him to turn around, go back, that this is a horrible idea, suicidal. 

All of that is true, but for Alexander he’ll do anything. 

He notes, almost numbly, that the manor his boy had been held in isn’t actually that far away from the town Hamilton had been taken from, but it’s obscure enough in the nature of its location that they would have never found it if not for the directions from the scout. 

The door swings open suddenly, and Washington reaches for a pistol that he doesn’t have. 

A slave girl greets him, taking in his form for a moment and then gesturing wordlessly for him to come in. He doesn’t relax, he’s tense in a new way as he’s led through the halls into Davies’ dining room. 

Two placements on the table. Just two. 

The slave gestures to one of them and then slips out of the room; Washington wonders if she’s a mute or merely ordered to stay quiet. 

When he reaches to undo his cloak and take it off he finds that his hands are trembling, a contradiction to the out of place numbness he’s felt since he set out from the camp.

Washington takes his seat, swallowing heavily. 

The dread only grows as he’s left to wait for his ‘host’ and he knows with near certainty that this is by design. 

He has no idea what condition Alexander will be in, he just knows what those letters said; that he’d been beaten, drowned, cut and whipped, that he’d screamed, screamed for Washington- 

That he had not been  _ Hamilton  _ when that scouting party had seen him. 

And finally the door opens. 

Washington’s gaze rips towards it, his expression far too open and hopeful,  _ scared,  _ than what is wise when meeting a man like this. 

Davies strolls through casually, flashing the general a charming grin as he pulls the door back closed. 

“Don’t stand on my account,” Davies quips, striding over to the table confidently. “It is  _ so  _ good to see you again General, it’s been too long, really,” he sits, pouring himself a glass of wine and sips at it, completely at ease. “I was rather worried you wouldn’t accept my invitation.” 

Washington opens his mouth to reply, but his hands are trembling and there’s a constriction around his throat preventing any sound. 

This man, he’s really here. Some part of Washington had believed - maybe had  _ hoped  _ \- that it wasn’t true, even now, even when Alexander was taken, even when he saw those notes, the handwriting, even when he’d _ known _ Washington had hoped distantly that it was all a nightmare. 

Now he’s sitting in front of him, and the illusion is shattered; reality is the nightmare. 

He hears this man’s voice, sees him and his predatory grin almost every night in sleep, and now he’s awake and Davies doesn’t fade. 

“Cat got your tongue, Your Excellency?” Davies smirks, and reaches for Washington’s wine glass, filling it with the same red as his own. “Perhaps you’re merely tired from the ride, yes?” 

The wine is not poisoned, Washington just saw Davies sip his own. He brings it to his lips and somehow hides his shaking hand, letting the liquid sit in his mouth and then swallows. It’s not any more bitter than it should be. 

“Forever would have been too soon,” he finally manages, his voice rough but even. “Where is h-” 

“Ah-ah,” Davies’ grin widens, he puts up one finger scoldingly, “you’re here to dine with  _ me, _ General; it’d be terribly rude for you to disregard my company so quickly, don’t you think?” 

Washington clenches his jaw and glares murderously at his dining partner, but jerks his head into a nod.  _ What game are you playing, Davies?  _

Because if there is one thing Washington knows about this man it’s that he is always,  _ always  _ playing somehow. 

“I would not have put myself on the top of the list of your chosen guests to dine with,” Washington growls, seeing two servants bringing in the silver platters of their food. “And one does not usually send invitations via two of my own captured men.” 

“A flare for dramatics has never harmed anyone,” Davies replies, taking another sip of his wine. 

Washington thinks of a burning building, of Alexander with his side soaked with blood, of Alexander paralyzed and sprayed with Davies’ blood in a clearing. 

He scoffs.

His food is placed in front of him, some kind of salted meat and vegetables. 

“Enjoy,” Davies grins. 

“Seasoned with arsenic perhaps?” Washington questions dryly, picking up his cutlery anyways. He has no appetite.

A laugh, “Why would I do something like that?” Davies cuts into his meat and takes a bite. “Go ahead. Someone on my staff spent the whole day making this lovely meal for the two of us. I’m sure they’d be disappointed to learn you wouldn’t even try it.”

Washington merely glares. “In truth, I’m not hungry.”

Davies shrugs, “Suit yourself.” He turns his attention back to his meal and eats, taking his time. 

Washington stares, expectant. His anger at the man, what he’s  _ done  _ to Alexander, and now his  _ games _ rises, his temper sending the first sparks of fire through his veins. 

There’s only one reason why Washington is here and they both know it, and yet Davies insists on playing this game of circles.

“So, how is life at the-” 

Washington slams his hands on the table. “ _ Where is he, dammit?!”  _

Davies looks up from his food, barely a twitch in acknowledgement of the general’s outburst. “Bit eager are we?” He raises an eyebrow, and then puts the piece of meat into his mouth, chewing slowly, never moving his gaze from Washington’s. 

Washington glares, barely suppressed fury in his eyes. He’s ready to attack Davies right here, consequences be damned, and his rage only grows when he sees nothing but amusement in Davies’ expression. 

“Fine,” Davies sighs dramatically, the corners of his lips still turned upwards, “I suppose I can live with the heartbreak that you did not travel all this way to see  _ me. _ ” A muscle in Washington’s jaw twitches and Davies rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes…” he puts the cutlery down and turns his head towards the door. “Emilie!” 

The same slave girl that answered the door before slips back into the room, waiting expectantly for her orders. 

“Bring him.” 

She nods, leaves, and Washington feels his anger wash away to fear again, his breath stuttering in his chest as he waits.

The door opens again a minute later and Washington shoots to his feet. It’s him, it’s really  _ him, alive _ . But the boy doesn’t even look up. 

“Come here pet,” Davies smiles and beckons Alexander closer. He shuffles alongside Davies and slowly drops to his knees next to his chair. 

“Hamilton!”

No reaction. He doesn’t look up.

“Alexander!”

Nothing.

Washington starts forward, but he doesn't get more than a step before Davies lazily draws a pistol and aims at him. "Stop there, Your Excellency, and  _ sit down. _ We don't want anything to happen to you or my pet, hm?"

Slowly, Washington steps back and slumps into his seat. Davies smirks and places the pistol next to his plate. 

"What have you done to him?"

“Did you know that I rather consider myself something of a scientist?” Davies shifts the subject smoothly, toying with Alexander’s hair - the end of the braid - a bold smile on his lips. “Self-taught I suppose, or rather, taught by masters that handle all sorts of roots, flowers, bark, all sorts of natural things that can be harvested and used for…” He smiles, tugging a little harder on the boy’s hair. “Research. It’s fascinating.”

“Research,” Washington repeats incredulously, eyes locked on Davies’ movements. “And what ‘research’ have you conducted that you wear the title of a man of science?” 

“Why, you’re looking at it,” Davies grins, “my darling little pet here has been my newest project for months.” 

“Excuse me?” Washington clenches his fists against his lap. “He’s not-” 

“Yes, he is.” Davies tugs on Alexander’s hair again, the boy doesn’t so much as shift away. “There are concoctions out there general, mixtures that can do things you can’t even imagine…” a pale finger trails down the boy’s cheek, gentle. “The night I reclaimed my pet I tested my newest medicine on him, slipped it in his drink before it was brought to him.” 

The man chuckles, like he’s telling an amusing story about something silly a child did rather than how he  _ kidnapped  _ Washington’s charge. 

“I was rather proud of myself, I must admit,” Davies continues, hardly sparing a glance for Washington’s darkening eyes, “I guessed the correct dosage to take away all of those pesky thoughts of his but keep enough mind to do anything I asked of him, first try. When given in large enough doses, it clouds the mind, causes extreme suggestibility… he was mine immediately.” 

Davies pauses, considering. 

“Though, he’s always been mine.” 

Moving purposely slow, like he’s showing off, he takes a morsel of meat from his plate and puts it to Alexander’s lips. There’s no hesitation, the boy opens his mouth and takes the bite. And he still doesn’t look up.

“Would you like to know a secret, General?” Davies passes another scrap to the boy without even needing to look at him. Clearly they’re well practiced at this. That thought makes Washington feel ill. All of these months he’s been looking for Alexander, and Davies has been training him like a dog. “Well?”

“What?” 

Davies grins and yanks the boy’s hair so he has no choice but to look at Washington. Something sparks in his eyes, but the General cannot tell the emotion, or if he’s even recognized.

“I’ve not given him his medicine in weeks,” The man beams with pride as he releases Alexander’s hair and lets his gaze fall back to the ground. “Everything he now is comes from me, and all the  _ fun _ we’ve had together.”

Alexander reacts at that, lifts his head, but toward Davies, not Washington “What?” The boy looks up at Davies unprompted, confusion dancing through his expression. “I’m not…?” 

Rage flashes over Davies’ face and the sound of a slap cracks through the air. Alexander cries out as he’s thrown to the side; his face throbs, he holds where the man struck, a small cut where Davies’ ring sits, tears flushing his eyes. 

Washington shouts, shoving his seat back as he stands, slamming his hands on the table. 

“I-I’m s-sorry,” Hamilton cries, pulling himself to his knees. “I’m sorry Master.” 

That might as well have been a bullet to Washington as well. 

Because Alexander… he’d  _ shouted  _ at  _ Washington _ for the insinuation that his  _ work was wrong,  _ and now… now he was- he was being  _ hit  _ and he apologized to  _ Davies.  _

_ What have you done to him? _

The words seem to soothe Davies’ nerves, enough that he doesn’t hit Hamilton again, but when he looks up at Washington there’s something there that wasn’t before - rage. 

The gun is off the table and pointed at Alexander in the blink of an eye. Washington lurches forward with a cry of alarm, but he screeches to a halt as Davies rests it on his boy’s head. 

“Open your mouth, pet.” His voice is chillingly cold, devoid of all previous playfulness. Alexander does. Davies pushes the gun into his mouth, and Hamilton doesn’t even twitch to get away, though his eyes widen. 

“Davies-” 

“ _ Shut up, Washington.”  _

Washington snaps his jaw shut, terrified at the hissing fury in the man’s voice. 

A moment later Davies collects himself, grins, and draws the weapon back. Alexander doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move. Davies hauls the boy to his feet and points the weapon at Washington instead. “I have a better idea. Follow us,  _ General _ .”

Davies starts for the door, dragging Alexander with him. The boy twists, maybe intending to fight, or perhaps not, but just before he’s shoved into the hall his eyes catch Washington’s, and there’s pain. Washington would follow whether there’s a weapon trained on him or not. He’s not going to let Alexander out of his sight again.

He follows them outside, attention fixed on Alexander the whole time. He nearly forgets that there’s a pistol pointed at him. It’s almost completely dark now, a few torches placed outside the manor. He stops a short distance from the house, and whirls back on Washington. “Stop there.”

Washington stops.

“Let me see your hands.” 

Davies keeps a grip on Alexander, who doesn’t care that the muzzle of the gun strays to under his chin. But Washington does. 

“Turn around Washington.” He does, and now he can’t see when Davies is close to Alex with the gun and when he’s not. It doesn’t matter anyways, because it’s seconds and he feels his arms wrenched behind him, coarse rope wound around his wrists and secured there.

Davies jerks him back around to face Alexander, backing up until he has the boy in his grasp again.

“Get on your knees.” 

The pistol stays trained on him, an execution then. Washington kneels. He was expecting this, he knew this was a trap. 

Davies shoves Alexander in front of him and forces the pistol into his hands and positions him until he’s directly lined up with Washington. He raises the weapon and forces the boy’s chin up. “Shoot him, pet. Kill him.”

Something shudders in Washington’s chest. He’s going to make Alexander kill him… but what if he’s still  _ there?  _

He looks up and finds Alexander’s eyes, holding his gaze. At least he got to see him again, he wishes he could have taken him away from here, this  _ pain.  _ There’s a flash of  _ something  _ in the boy’s eyes.

The hand holding the pistol trembles.

There’s a shaky breath.

Silence. 

“No.” 

“Excuse me?” Davies doesn’t look away from Washington. He readjusts Alexander’s aim, keeping a tight grip on one wrist. “I told you to  _ shoot him.” _

“I… I can’t,” Alexander’s hands still shake. He lets go of the gun, but Davies snatches it away before it can fall to the ground. He holsters the weapon and yanks Alexander against him, and that rage Washington saw a few minutes ago returns.

“Can’t?  _ You _ , boy, belong to  _ me _ . You don’t tell me no!”

“I-I don’t want t-to…” Alexander leans away from Davies, one hand pressing against his chest like he was trying to get away. Davies stares at him, unreadable, tilting his head as he bores into Alexander with eyes alone. 

His hand moves from the boy’s shoulder to his jaw in a beat, squeezing painfully just as he forces him to his knees with a cry.

“The only thing you  _ want  _ anymore, pet, is what  _ I  _ want!” His free hand fumbles for something in the inside pocket of his jacket, drawing it out and pressing it to Alexander’s lips. 

_ A vial, it’s a vial.  _

Davies squeezes the hinge of the boy’s jaw until his lips part in a silent scream and then rams the glass beneath his teeth, betraying his anger despite his cold expression. Alexander does scream then, trying to push away from him and finding he doesn't have the strength. The liquid rushes into his mouth faster than he can swallow and he  _ doesn’t want it he doesn’t.  _

Davies doesn’t care. 

He throws the vial away once it’s empty and clasps the other hand over Alexander’s nose, tightening his grip when he tries to thrash away madly. 

“ _ Swallow.”  _

Another scream, more frantic thrashing. Washington twitches forwards, Alex is being  _ hurt,  _ he’s  _ screaming,  _ and he’s  _ right there _ , but Davies sees him and snarls. “Move a muscle and I’ll suffocate the life out of him!” 

Washington freezes. 

Alexander swallows. Davies can feel the muscles move in his jaw and releases him. 

His pet collapses forward, coughing and sputtering and sobbing now too. A minute must pass, then two, and he stills.

Davies yanks him upright again and forces him against his side as he takes aim at Washington himself. Alexander’s head lolls toward Washington, and then limply against Davies’ shoulder. 

“Goodbye, General.”

Washington knows the shot is coming, but he doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t shift to avoid it. If Alexander is trapped here he isn’t going anywhere.

But the boy moves as Davies fires. The movement is jerky, uncoordinated, but Alexander shifts his weight and shoves Davies’ arm, throwing off his aim. The bullet wizzes past Washington’s ear and slams into a nearby branch.

Davies’ rage returns again. He drops the gun and flings Alexander to the ground, following with a sharp kick to the side. “ _ Damn you _ , you  _ worthless _ little…” Another kick, he trails off and looks toward Washington. Their eyes lock and Washington doesn’t know what he sees in the man’s gaze, just that he never wants to see it again.

Alexander is different, lying on the ground, blank, vacant. He doesn’t react from the assault. Davies throws the pistol to the side and picks the boy up from the ground, moving him like a doll. He forcibly turns him toward Washington and shoves him forward with a scoff.

“Free him then.”

For Alexander, it’s an order. For Washington, it’s a challenge.

Alexander stumbles forward, still no hesitation, no emotion. Whatever ‘medication’ Davies has given him leaves him even more empty than when Washington first laid eyes on him tonight. The boy doesn’t look at him, doesn’t speak as he drops to his knees behind Washington, fingers fumbling clumsily with the rope binding his hands. 

Washington doesn’t dare look away from Davies. Not while Alex unties him. Not while he stands and carefully helps the boy to his feet. Not while he leads him away. 

His horse is led to the front of the manor by one of Davies’ men. Washington helps Alex onto the horse, climbs on himself, and they race away.

But with one final glance back he sees Davies still standing in that same spot, watching.

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	5. for just a moment

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Alexander cannot hold on for himself as they ride, so Washington keeps a tight grip around the boy’s waist, not daring to go any faster than a gallop. Whatever Davies forced down his throat is long past the point of being able to get rid of through sick. 

It’s surreal, the general realizes, this entire night has been surreal. 

He has Alexander Hamilton back, he himself is unharmed, Davies just… let them go. Why? Why would he do that? 

He stalked Alexander for _ months; _he was nearly killed in his first attempt, and now that Washington has reclaimed his stolen aide, surely that madman knows he won’t let anything happen to the boy again. 

And yet, Washington has the distinct feeling that he is not the one with the advantage. 

The nighttime air is still, quiet, but Washington knows that there are predators out here still. 

He tightens his grip on Alexander and urges the horse just a little faster; he wants to go home. He hopes that there is still a scrap of _ home _left in his poor aide. Alexander doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, through the entire trip.

The first emotion his men at camp feel that Washington can tell is _ relief, _and understandably so. Until… well, until the last five minutes of that encounter that dinner was a suicide mission. 

And then after the relief there is shock, because he’s brought Alexander Hamilton back. 

He does not care what emotions his men are feeling however - well, perhaps one, wherever Laurens has gone off to tonight - right now he focuses on shouting for a medic and carrying Alexander into his own quarters. 

That spike of fear is still ever present in his chest, after this it would probably never go away, and he moves quickly for fear that the shouts of celebration and preparation outside would startle Hamilton, pull whatever foundation he has out from under his feet, but there is nothing, still. 

Alexander stares up at him blankly and waits for his orders. 

The general does not want Hamilton’s comrades seeing him in this state, and he is sure in his right mind Hamilton would not either, so he locks the door behind him once he’s up, promising to open it for no one but the doctor. 

A miracle with talons indeed, Washington can already tell that the road to recovery will be a long one. 

The doctor will likely arrive within minutes. Washington isn’t totally sure what to do. He sets the boy on his feet and pulls an extra blanket from a trunk. Anything to keep the boy more comfortable. 

“Hamilton, if you’re cold…”

Nothing. He doesn’t even blink.

“Hamilton?”

The boy doesn’t even acknowledge him. He does not move as Washington carries the blanket to the bed. 

“Alexander…?”

He turns back to the boy, this skinny shadow of what he was some months ago, and this time there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. But before he can speak, there’s a commotion in the hall.

“No, let me pass. I need to see him, dammit!”

Laurens. In the few minutes since they’ve arrived in camp someone must have found him and told him that Hamilton has returned. 

There’s still no reaction from Alexander himself. The boy stares at nothing in the direction of the far wall. Washington frowns and leaves him there as the footsteps in the hallway grow heavier.

Washington barely has time to close the door before Laurens bumps into him and tries to push past, eyes wide and frantic. “Hamilton, you found him? You brought him back?” There’s a wild look to his eyes, like he won’t believe it until he can see his friend himself. 

“Yes,” the general struggles to keep him at a distance. “John-”

“I need to see him,” He tries to push past Washington again. There’s desperation to his voice that crushes him all the more. “Please, sir-”

“In the morning,” Washington says quietly. That’s his final answer. Laurens freezes, looking crushed.

“But-”

“I’ve no doubt that Hamilton is exhausted. I’ve already called for a doctor,” Washington is able to let go of Laurens, and the boy steps back. “Allow him to rest for tonight. I’m sure he’ll be better able to speak to you in the morning.”

“Is he hurt? Is he okay? Sir I-” 

“As far as I can tell he is in no danger, you will be able to speak with him tomorrow.”

Laurens doesn’t look any less upset, but he seems to understand. He nods slowly and steps back as the next set of footsteps approach. The doctor. Washington nods in a short greeting, clasps Laurens’ shoulder for a moment, then steps back into the room with the doctor right behind him.

Alexander hasn’t moved. He still stands in the middle of the room, gaze fixed and empty on the wall. Worry curls in Washington’s gut. He approaches the boy and guides him to the bed to sit. Alexander offers no resistance, no comment. He follows and sits with ease. As the doctor sets down his bag and takes a few supplies, Washington leans into Alexander’s line of sight.

“Can you hear me, my boy?”

“Yes.” The answer is instant, emotionless. Alexander doesn’t shift his gaze in the least.

This evening he let Davies rest a gun in his mouth, and Washington is reminded of that now. It is not a reminder that he wants. 

Washington has to force himself to step back when the doctor approaches to examine the boy. He stays close, barely more than an arm’s length from the bed. He won’t let Alexander further away now, not when he finally has him back.

Even if it’s only some of him.

The doctor asks questions, asks what happened to Alexander during his captivity. There is no answer. 

Washington can answer a few though, the words from Davies’ letters still branded into his mind, how Davies taunted him with Alexander’s torture. 

“Take off your shirt please, Colonel,” the doctor asks, stepping away to give Hamilton the room he needs. 

There is no movement. 

Hamilton stares.

The doctor clicks his tongue, and his expression is not one that Washington welcomes. He looks worried almost, concerned. 

“More… more direct,” Washington says in a whisper, recalling how Davies had spoken to the boy earlier, and how he hadn’t responded to his last name just minutes ago. He does not want to emulate that man in the slightest, but he swallows his disgust and does it, for Alexander’s own good. 

“I’m sorry?” The doctor raises an eyebrow. 

“Take off your shirt, Alexander.” Washington has to force himself to speak, and when he does it is the general’s voice, not the father’s.Hamilton moves, unbuttoning his shirt and sliding it down his shoulders immediately. 

“Does that have anything to do with that concoction you mentioned to me?” The doctor speaks as he rounds Alexander’s back, pulling on the boy to get him to turn where he needs him. 

“I imagine so, yes,” Washington chokes. 

Alexander’s back is scarred, most of them are still red and raised. It’s not from whippings it’s- 

“A blade,” the doctor examines them clinically, almost tracing the scars, “these are all from a blade, except… these here,” he points a cluster of scars out, more coarse and jagged than the rest, “these I believe are burn scars.” 

Washington feels sick. 

That’s not even accounting for the bruises scattered along Hamilton’s chest and arms, and the newly bloomed one along his cheek. 

Some are yellowed and faded, some are black, some are varying shades of purple; they all amount to the same conclusion: Alexander was beaten, often. 

“You might want to step out for the next part of the examination, for the boy’s decency.” 

Washington furrows his brow, about to insist he stay, when he realizes what the doctor means. He needs to see the rest of Hamilton. 

“I have a privacy divider,” he mumbles, “I’ll stay in, but we’ll move it here.” 

The doctor nods and stands to help Washington move the divider, and Hamilton once again stays absolutely still when they move away and come back. 

Washington hears the order for Hamilton to take off his breeches and has to grip the wood of his desk to keep himself from shouting in frustration. Now more than ever the _ unfairness _ of the situation sets in; Alexander Hamilton was a _ bright boy, _he was brilliant, and kind - albeit reckless and foolhardy - and above all else he was innocent. 

He was _ not _ this, he was _ not _ obedient and docile and _ empty. _And what had he done to garner such treatment? Been attractive to the wrong man and close to Washington. 

The doctor finishes his exam and collects Washington, Alexander is sat on the bed fully clothed when the general looks back around the privacy shield. 

“There is much the same along his hips and legs, Your Excellency,” he informs Washington, “and there seems to have been quite a severe fracture to his wrist, it has not set right. I do not think that even rebreaking would help it.” 

“Well, what does that mean?” Washington’s brows knit together as his arms cross. This cannot mean… Hamilton could not have lost-

“His motor control has most likely been impacted, I do not know if he will be able to write as he once did.” 

Is there any limit to what Samuel Davies can take from him? He cannot walk properly, he cannot write properly, his emotions, his mind, what is left of the boy Washington knew? His body? Even that is scarred by that psychopath. 

“General,” the doctor pulls him from his thoughts, “if you’d be willing, we might step into the hall to discuss… some of my other findings.” 

Dread curls sour in Washington’s gut, but he nods jerkily. He does not think Alexander will move while they are gone. 

The door clicks shut behind him and the doctor, and he cannot but help to feel like he’s abandoning Hamilton all over again. 

When the door shuts however, Alexander stands. He blinks. Knows this place. 

He pads lightly over to Washington’s desk, where parchment and quill wait, and the quill up, dips it into the inkpot and hovers it above the blank parchment. But he can’t get himself to write a word, he has a thought… wants to write it out, break through the fog, but- he can’t. 

It’s not as distressing as it once was, that he can no longer write, but it is curious. He feels like he _ should _ be able to do something but _ can’t. _The thoughts no longer become movements, and his wrist spasms painfully from holding the quill anyways. 

Maybe he isn’t able to write, instead. Funny, he thought he could. 

The door knob turns and Hamilton is back sitting where Washington left him almost instantly, carefully placed and sitting straight, waiting for new orders. 

He watches warily as the general enters the quarters once more, looking paler than he had before. He glances once at Alexander and then crosses to his desk, withdrawing a small coin purse from one of the drawers. Small as it may be, Hamilton knows it would carry a considerable amount of money when full, which it looks to be. 

There are murmurs outside, if Hamilton concentrates he can hear some of them. 

“-this stays between us.” 

“Of course, General.” 

And the doorknob jingles again. Washington returns without the coin purse. 

The general steels himself before turning back to Hamilton, donning the most reassuring expression he can manage. “Well,” he starts softly, “I think we ought to head to bed, my boy.” 

Alexander grins and nods, standing up and taking a few steps towards Washington. 

Washington’s expression morphs from confusion to horror as Alexander begins to unfasten his breeches a few paces away from him, and then unbuttons his shirt, stepping forward as if to do the same to Washington. 

“N-no, Alexander,” Washington hurries to stop him, catching the boy’s wrists gently. “Not like that. Just lay down on your bed,” he points to Alexander’s bed which he never had removed, “that one, and… just go to sleep.” 

Alexander tilts his head, blinking in confusion a few times before he silently nods and backs away. 

This silent spectre that he’s retrieved is so different from the Alexander Hamilton that Washington knew- _ knows _, it breaks his heart. 

He makes sure that the boy actually gets under his covers and waits for his breathing to even out into sleep before even trying to get into his own bed. 

He doesn’t sleep, feels like he might not sleep ever again. No, Washington stays up and curses Samuel Davies to Hell and back, and vows that he’ll send him there one day, properly. 

… 

Washington wakes before the sun comes up to a soft, insistent knocking at the door. He’s slept in a chair next to the bed, waking often to make sure Alexander is still there, still breathing. It wasn’t a dream. Washington got him back, he’s safe.

He lights a candle on his desk and crosses the room to the door quietly as he can. Before he opens it Washington glances back to the bed. Alex is lying there, candlelight glinting against his eyes. Quiet as the general tried to be, he woke him.

Laurens stands in the hall with a small stack of letters in his hand. Washington sighs and allows him in; clearly he hasn’t slept at all.

“Letters from Congress,” he explains quietly, offering the papers to Washington. “Smith’s just returned as well.”

It takes a moment for the name to register in Washington’s mind, but then it clicks. One of the scouts that had encountered Davies, and ridden straight to Congress. So these letters surely contain inquiries about what he is doing to capture Davies.

Washington nods and sets the letters on his desk. As soon as he has Laurens kneels next to Hamilton, movements slow and gentle just instinctively. Washington could reprimand him for not being given leave to do so, but he hasn’t the heart. 

Alexander’s disappearance took such a toll on Laurens as well. 

“Hi Hammie,” John whispers, watching Alex’s eyes belatedly focus on him. Washington isn’t sure if the drug has worn off yet, and he's about to tell Laurens so when Alex grins, reaching out and brushing a piece of hair away from John’s face. 

“Hi John,” he whispers, “missed you.” His eyes flicker to Washington, he takes a moment, finding the name. Not _ He, _ but _ Washington. _“Hello, Sir.”

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